Cleaning squad
by BBCRULES
Summary: After funeral, Mrs. Hudson finally decided to clean up the upstairs flat. The photo of a container full of 221B props gave me this idea. Mrs. Hudson and Molly's story after the fall. Thanks for reading. Reviews are very welcome.
1. Mrs Hudson

This just flew out of me. When I saw a picture of a container full of 221B things including the famous armchair, I started to wonder what Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson would have done about Sherlock's things!

So Martin has read Gattiss' script, 3o1. Only less than two weeks before the filming! Cheers!

Thanks for reading. Please reviews are appreciated very much.

P.S. Biohazard waste is supposed to be disposed separately. Molly must've helped Mrs. Hudson to deal with body parts:)

P.S Britpick, please, if possible :D

* * *

**Fifteen days after the funeral**

Thumps and creaks. The landlady opened the door of 221A. John stopped: only a trip to downstairs and he was already sweating.

"Did you eat something, dear? When are you going to get back?"

"In three hours. Thanks for the tea. I didn't go last week so it will take more time."

"I've called a cab for you. He's waiting."

Her tenant gave a terse nod in thanks: it was his second, no, first counseling with his therapist since _he_ died. John didn't go last week despite Mrs. Hudson's barking, Harry's tear, and Mycroft's threat. This morning, he was already up when she brought up a tray of tea and toasts upstairs.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson briskly returned to her flat and picked up cleaning tools like cleaners, duster, and sponges along with a box of bin liners and a couple of cardboard boxes. Today she was determined to clean the upstairs flat, especially the kitchen. Molly was to come soon to deal with biohazardous waste like fingers, eyeballs, and only-God-knows-what-is-inside from the refrigerator. Thank God there was no severed human head this time.

The stairs creaked in protest; her hips were not helping this morning. Panting, the old lady walked into the sitting room and opened the windows. The smell was unbearable. A tray... Two toasts on a dish were left untouched; and the cup was half-drained. Poor John. He barely ate anything. At night, she could hear the doctor pacing around, unable to get asleep since _he_ died. Harry Watson, visited him and offered her flat for the time being. No response from John at all after two hours of her visit.

John was so protective of _his_ things: he almost yelled when the landlady first attempted "cleaning" upstairs two days ago. Today, she hoped she and Molly would be able to handle the kitchen at least. Hygiene was doubtful given the kitchen "overflew" with fingers and toes. Mrs. Hudson looked around the sitting room.

She never knew the place was so empty. The same furniture, the same things... a fireplace, bookshelves, arm chairs, tables, sofa, rug, the bloody skull, books and periodicals, two laptops on the table… Only _he_ wasn't here: silence fell in the room without pounding of a gun, ear-torturing violin music, and loud complaints of boredom. Even the smiley on the wall seemed to frown at her.

The door bell rang. Mrs. Hudson hurried downstairs. Molly was there. She looked worse than before: eye bags, pale complexion, blistered lips... Mrs. Hudson's eyes softened.

_Poor thing. She hasn't gotten over him. She shouldn't have done the post-mortem of...him_.

After tea for five minutes, they hurried upstairs. Molly put on nitrile gloves and a mask, and opened the red biohazard plastic bag. The refrigerator... Shelf after shelf, she started tossing away containers and plastic bags that had body parts or cells into the red bag. After the fridge, she checked all the kitchen cabinets and drawers. Finally she took of her gloves and tossed them into the bag and sealed it. She was efficient and fast.

"I'll take it to the hospital, Mrs. Hudson. What's next?"

"All those chemicals and experiment tools..."

"Chemicals. Most of them are from the lab. I can take them back."

In another thirty minutes, all the chemicals were put away in a box. Mrs. Hudson threw away the vegetables and fruits that were shriveling or rotting away with molds. She wiped clean the inside of the refrigerator. Now the shelves were bare with a couple of sauce bottles, a stick of butter, and a few slices of cheese. No more bad smells... The experiment tools were rinsed, put in the boxes, and stacked in a corner. There was only one item left, the microscope.

"What about the microscope?"

Mrs. Hudson exasperated. They looked at each other. It reminded them of _him_ so much. Molly's eyes were already teary. The landlady bit her lips and whispered,

"It's from Mycroft. _He_ once told me that the microscope was the best gift from his brother. I'll call him later. I also have to ask him about _his_ clothes..."

It was almost noon. Molly had to go. She picked up the red bag and box. They had biscuits and pastries with tea before a cab arrived. When the cabbie rang the bell, Mrs. Hudson uttered out one question that had dreaded her all along since she called Molly for help.

"Molly, how will John react when he sees the kitchen?"

Molly felt her eyes burn again. She managed to choke out,

"He has to deal with it anyway. He will accept it. Be positive, Mrs. Hudson. He is a tough soldier."

Then she was gone. The landlady heaved a sigh, getting ready for a grocery shopping. Maybe some food might cheer her tenant up.

To her relief, the doctor didn't say anything on the "state" of the kitchen when he came back. Mycroft had asked her to leave the microscope where it was for the time being. That night, Mrs. Hudson couldn't hear John's pacing; it was unnervingly quiet so she sneaked upstairs after midnight. He almost gave her a heart attack: he was sitting at the kitchen table and holding the microscope. His gun was on the table, too. She blinked a few times not to cry and cleared her throat. John stood up heavily and walked upstairs to his bedroom in silence, with his pistol forgotten.

* * *

John still suffered. Insomnia, lack of interest, no appetite... His gun was put away in a lockable drawer. He only went out on counseling days. The following week, Mrs. Hudson started "cleaning" again: this time, _his_ bedroom: it should be simple. The bedding had to be washed; as to _his_ clothes Mycroft Holmes picked up a few items for "memory" including the dark coat and the navy scarf: Lestrade had returned them last weekend. The rest of the clothes would stay in the closet until told otherwise. Bathroom would be easy: that would be for tomorrow.

Mrs. Hudson could still smell _his_ cologne and some mothballs. She opened the window and started to tide up the room. _His_ violin was put back to its case. Bed coverings were stripped: mattress topper, pillow and duvet covers...to the launderette two blocks away. She dusted the room and vacuumed. After thirty minutes, she felt dizzy: it wasn't only John who had lost appetite and sleep. The landlady usually tossed and turned in her bed mostly because she was worried about the doctor. She had to drink a cup of tea and rest her legs before she started her cleaning operation again.

Stacks of books and periodicals... Mrs. Hudson jumped at the book title, the illustrated guide of human decomposition. _How gross!_ Shaking her head, she put as many books as possible to the bookshelves. There were grotesque photos of dead bodies and animals: straight into a box. She left medical books and periodicals where they were, assuming they were John's. Bundles of documents...she needed John's advice so she piled them up on the table near the laptops. Musical notes…that he used to compose…were put in a bag. A _cluedo_ game and the chess board were slided under the sofa. There were so many odds and bits on the desk so she just put most of them in a small box. She would ask John to sort them through later. Time for dusting, vacuuming, and wiping.

Time for a rest again for the old lady. Mrs. Hudson sat on the armchair near the window. Almost instantly she jolted up, realizing that it was _his_ chair. She picked up her duster and started dusting the dusted mantelpiece again. The skull.

_What did he call it, Billy?_

She reached out her arm and touched its smooth surface. Something glittering was inside its sockets. Wondering what it would be, the landlady picked the skull up. There it was - a packet of tobaccos. _His_ secret supply… She could hear _his_ agitated voice. _He_ had asked her to find this secret supply. Her tenants of 221B used to play a hide-and-seek on a packet of cigarettes or a box of nicotine patches. When she broke up with Mr. Chattergie downstairs, she was also upset at _him_ for _his_ honesty. Now she realized that _he_ said so because _he_ did care for her. If only _he_ were here, she would say the belated thank-you hundred times.

Something burst inside her. Mrs. Hudson choked up, held the skull and the cigarettes, and started to cry. Tear drops fell on the smooth surface of Billy. At last she could shed tears because John was not here. She had lost a track of time...All of a sudden, she got a feeling that she wasn't alone. Flinching, she looked up and found the doctor. Apparently he was at a loss. He had never seen her crying after the funeral. Hiccupping, Mrs. Hudson choked out _his_ name for the first time since the doctor broke the news, "John, I'm so sorry. I miss _him_. I miss Sherlock."

John limped towards her. He put away his cane and led the landlady gently into his armchair. Their eyes met when he knelt before the chair. The raw sorrow, denial, and disbelief. His hands loosened. John started to sob. The absence of the detective felt so hurting. Together they cried for a long time.

* * *

**Three months later**

Boxes of experiment tools were donated to a nearby school; some odds and bits were cleared away. 221B was too quiet, odorless, and decluttered. Mrs. Hudson didn't rent 221B to anyone else because Mycroft saw to it that the flat was kept as it was for the time being. When John moved out, the space became more spacey and empty. It was a space for the dead. Almost everything was cleared away but a few items.

On the kitchen table was the old microscope; on the armchair the violin case; on the mantelpiece the bloody skull along with the yellow smiley on the wall.

* * *

Years later, it was they that greeted the comeback of Sherlock Holmes when he returned from death.


	2. Molly Hooper

"Molly, please come in."

Mike Stamford turned his back towards her with a friendly smile. Molly stepped into the office, gently closing the door behind her. It was about two weeks ago that she was here last time. She was used to his summons: he often gave her a mild warning on what _he_ did without authorization: for example, when he found there were some chemical agents missing or body samples taken without a notice. Mike got more tolerant and even supportive of _him_ since _he_ provided the key information to whereabouts of his daughter when she went missing, yet he had to supervise the lab.

Two weeks ago, Molly had to face very agitated Stamford for missing John Doe. Mike saw her enter the morgue after midnight on the day of Sherlock's death. He didn't connect the missing body and the dead detective, yet he summoned her right after the funeral. Molly had often assisted Sherlock in _his_ weird experiments in the lab so she was in the bad books of Mike Stamford. Molly had to call Mycroft Holmes because it might derail the whole plan of _his_ fake suicide. The older Holmes must have intervened: the missing John Doe was forgotten: papers were made that showed the body's being transported to somewhere else.

"How are you?"

His tone was surprisingly warmhearted. She knew he was concerned about her after _his_ suicide. If only he had known the truth…She felt small. Hesitatingly she answered,

"Fine. Thank you."

"Coffee? You don't take sugar."

"Two sugars, please. Thank you."

Mike seemed to be surprised because he had never seen her drink sweetened ones: Molly usually drank green tea or black coffee. With raised eyebrows, he held the cup out.

"How's John?"

Molly asked. She hadn't tried contacting John since the funeral. John didn't visit the lab that his friend died, either – he didn't have to. When Sherlock visited her all of a sudden that night, Molly had promised to check on John and she couldn't. She felt guilty at the sight of the doctor and guiltier at the thought of the detective. Mike drank a few sips of his coffee before answering.

"You'd know. He doesn't call back or answer my text."

"Does he get some help like counseling?"

"Yes, he does. It's not helping that much. Molly, that's why I asked you to come."

Molly knew what would be his next words. She felt uncomfortable. She drank her cup rather hastily, which she regretted instantly. Her stomach felt like burning.

_How canI face John when I know he's alive and john's suffering? What if I let it slip_?

Her face got pale. Bloody stomach cramps. Mike noticed it. He stopped talking and wrote down a prescription for her while calling the pharmacy to get her medicine. He was about to ask Molly to check on John yet that was completely forgotten.

"How about taking a day off?"

"Thank you. But I've gotten things to finish by today. I'll take tomorrow off if necessary."

Molly thanked for the prescription and left. She threw away the coffee on her way out.

The lab... the morgue... the whole hospital premise had become an unbearable place for her since Sherlock "died". She knew _he_ was alive so she thought it should be okay for her. She wasn't.

Since the funeral, she often found herself to make extra coffee with two sugars and to bring it to upstairs lab. She could've drained it and rinsed the cup instead of drinking two cups of coffee. She just couldn't. Whenever a fresh body was in, she saw herself punch a text to the detective. How stupid of her to forget that _he_ didn't have that mobile anymore and _he_ could be anywhere in the world without a mobile service. The first time, she did send the text. Lestrade called her half an hour later. The police evidence lab was still working on the mobile retrieved on the rooftop. For the first week, Lestrade and his officers were often visiting the hospital. Her eyes always scanned the police officers "habitually" in search of her detective and his blogger. How stupid of her. John was here once right after the funeral, not the lab but the roof and outside near the bus stop...the place where his friend "landed". She was hiding in shadows: she could't meet his eyes.

That wasn't all. From time to time she stopped working and answered to _him_. She could swear she saw _his_ dark coat or the navy scarf fleeting around the corners of the lab or the morgue at least three times. Some hospital staff understood and gave her a sympathetic look or a comforting tap on her shoulder.

Two days ago someone tried to snatch her bag in an empty alley. She left her work very late so there was almost no one in the street. She barely screamed when a man appeared out of nowhere and overpowered the snatcher easily. He returned the bag to her and took the snatcher over to the police. A few minutes later, Mycroft called and explained the "protection" on her. It was that moment that Molly realized how precarious the situation was. Sherlock pulled the stunt well but it didn't mean everything was back to normal. Three snipers on John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. That was what her ex-boyfriend did to make Sherlock jump. She couldn't believe the sweet Jim could ever be able to do it. The snipers could come back anytime if they realize the detective was still alive. She began to understand why John had to witness _his _death. John had to believe. Once she learned why _he_ had to fake _his_ death, everything was so stressful for her. One slip from her mouth could ruin everything and worse, put the three people she liked in danger. She got eye bags and blistered lips, and lost her appetite. No wonder she got the unwelcome stomach cramps.

On her way home, Molly was at the pharmacy. Her mobile rang. It was Mrs. Hudson. She sounded so tired. Since _his_ "death", the landlady'd been walking on eggshells around the doctor all the time. Mrs. Hudson wanted her help in cleaning up the flat, especially the kitchen. Molly understood - body parts, cells, chemicals... It would be beyond Mrs. Hudson's home management skills. She promised a visit the following morning. She had already told the hospital that she would take the morning off. She doubled back to her lab and got a couple red biohazard plastic bag and gloves. Walking down the stairs to the Barbican station, she just wished she didn't have to see John during her visit the following day.


End file.
